


A Tragedy of Love and Ideology

by Of_Lights_and_Shadows



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: AU, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I apologise for this, I'm making a twist on a theatrical play, and he doesn't ship akamomo, because we all know aho, come on now that'd be ridiculous, i think, of course I haven't followed script by word, slightly nsfw, thank Ahomine for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Lights_and_Shadows/pseuds/Of_Lights_and_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The passion they feel is consuming, and perhaps the only thing they have in common.<br/>Their ideals are their greatest difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tragedy of Love and Ideology

**Author's Note:**

> "Why don't you join our theatre team?" they said. "It'll be fun!" they said.  
> Until we get the script a two or three weeks ago. I take my time and first leaf through it. Few days after that, we start working on it, and I can't help but see fictional characters at certain moments.
> 
> If anyone's wondering, the play is Martin Crimp's ''Attempts on her Life''.

In a summer day like this, in a crowded metropolis, you see people as one mass, all wearing the same, light clothes.

Attention is drawn to one couple. A young, attractive woman, holding the hand of a man who looks older than her, troubled, matured, yet youthfully attractive. A sensitive man who, however, is a man of authority and power, who knows that this affair is _wrong._

 _Both_ of them know it's wrong; you can see it on their faces. They know it well, but they can't do it otherwise.

 

The man leads her on his appartment. It's were their bodies come into a lustful union, as the sun sets, and one could see a panoramic view of the city from the large framed windows, as it's slowly being devoured by the darkness of night.

The woman screams. Her long hair, in a soft pink shade that could remind one of falling petals of sakura blossoms, fall on the side. It's a flowing motion, much similar to a waterfall. There tears in her eyes.

 

It goes without saying that the appartment is a luxuriously but still beautifully furnished and decorated one. High ceiling, large windows, ebony, or perhaps mahogany, furniture. Made to impress, to draw attention.

 

Back to the young woman. He hair falls on her side, similar to waterfalls. She's grabbing the edges of the bed, fingers whitened, eyes widened as he...

He _growls_ at her.

It's a surprisingly gentle kind of growl. One that belongs to a charming man of authority and power, and not in a brutal and vulgar way. Nothing like that. Nothing like a man who struggles for his daily living, holding their tools of their trade, speaking in slang. Instead, it's a sound coming from the mouth of a despotic man who can afford dining on a different county, no, on a different _continent_ from the one he had his breakfast. A man who _always_ travels first class, who is always served the best wine, who always dines on the most expensive and luxurious restaurants in the world.

It's that kind of growl.

That kind of **light _._**

It's the kind of light that flows through. It flows through the large windows, transforming their bodies into a golden mass. A mass that is slowly torn to pieces.

Out of the blue, the woman's gaze darkens. Her gaze darkens out of doubt. Even in the apogee of their passion, a shadow crosses her face, the shadow of forebonding.

 

 

Later than night, as the city lights shine bright through the night, she wakes up. She hears mumbling from the other room. It's her lover. His voice is hushed.

She has woken up on the heavy, wooden framed bed, and she holds her breath to listen to her lover's voice. She woke up at the sound of the tiny, antique clock resting on the bedside.

Three little chimes on the tiny bell that decorates it.

_It's three in the morning._

Three in the morning. She wakes up. Hears his voice. Lights up a cigarete. Walks close to him.

"Who was it? On the phone." she asks.

"No one." he replies.

"Dammit, who was it?" she yells, and she's now angry. She's angry, because she knows who was it.

She knows that on the phone was one of the men and women who have laid the path for him. Might as well be his own father.

They're calling him, as always. People she hates with her whole being. In her youthful idealism, she blames those very people for the injustice of the world; for making them unequals.

She throws her cigarete on the floor, stomping on it.

She starts yelling. Punching him. Biting. Kicking him with her bare, milky white feet. Again and again and again. The antique clock breaks into a million pieces, never to tick again, but the man simply stands there, lowering his head, so the only thing she sees is his bright, messy, crimson hair.

Then he looks at her, her eyes meeting his, and they are the same shade of colour as his hair, and she cries.

He carefully traces his hands over her crying face as if it was a precious chalice -or a basketball- wiping her tears with his fingers.

"You'll understand one day." he whispers, and perhaps there's a hint of guilt in his words. "One day you'll understand, not just my world, but the whole world. Everything has a price; even our ideals have a price." She brushes away the strands of hair that have stuck in her face, and kisses her.

She kisses back and, slowly, gently, she pushes him back to bed. Because she still loves him, despite their differences, their status, or their clashing ideologies. And in her messed up thoughts, her emotional turmoil, her increasing libido, her inability, at that moment, to distinguish right from wrong, as she, as both let that passion consume them.

 

.................................

 

"What's this, Aomine-kun?"

"I thought I'd make a script for the play."

"What play?"

"Don't you know about it, Tetsu? It's for the cultural festival."

"And you wrote Akashi-kun and Momoi-san doing it?"

Aomine can't think something to say to defend himself, because really now. What kind of an idiot would write something where the the main characters are his childhood friend and your team's demon Captain of all people?

"I advice you to not show this to them. To anyone, really." Kuroko mutters, glancing over at their Captain and manager, hoping they haven't heard anything about it.

 

"Um, Akashi-kun?"

"Yes, Momoi? Can I help you with something?"

"I feel angry at Dai-chan for some reason."

"I'll triple his training routine, does that sound good?"

"Quadruple?"

"Of course."

They share a smile.


End file.
